


Heir of Spades

by MorgensternofPrussia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Assisted Suicide, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canonical Character Death, Cardverse, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Childhood Trauma, Cousin Incest, Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9940607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorgensternofPrussia/pseuds/MorgensternofPrussia
Summary: Laugh, love, and live...while you can. Your fate is determined by the luck of the draw.Hearts for the Faith, for peace, for humility.Diamonds for wealth, for prosperity, for indulgence.Clovers for luck, for patience, for fortitude.Spades for power, for perseverance, for knowledge.The Wasteland, a grave for a has-been, its barren earth serves as a reminder for those who remain: the Grand Council, gods in their own right, imposed themselves on this earth years ago, and they are a force to be reckoned with.However, the generations of monarchs who tolerated them are dust. The new leaders emerge bitter and vengeful.Life is a series of gambles, none of which are without sacrifices. Are you ready to play?





	1. King of None

_“It is quite a shame, really. You always looked so good in red.”_

A coup d’etat from his own kin, a man with the same blood running through his veins. As the lowly ship sailed off from the docks, carrying the now banished Gilbert the White, the shock of it all withered away.

Perhaps he did not play his cards right. Perhaps he made the wrong move, or waited too long to make the right one. Maybe this was fate and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Maybe the gods were angry and his exile was his punishment. Whatever it might have been, it led him to an oddly chilly night that made his skin whiter than the bones residing within him, whether by the wind or impending doom.

The creaking wood and crashing waves were his company. There was no crew; the men who accompanied his brother had given the old ship a hard shove, leaving the currents to take him away to gods know where. He shivered in his undergarments--they were the only articles he was allowed to keep--and looked up to the night sky, searching for guidance.

The moon was no comfort. It illuminated his skin so brightly it nearly blinded him. He scraped his fingernails against the flesh of his arm as if doing so would make the light disappear.

He used to be proud of his special condition. He was told as a blacksmith’s young son that he was chosen by the gods to rule the kingdom...simply because his appearance was uncommon to most humans. He was not given the name “Gilbert the White” for traits of purity or innocence or diplomacy or any other type of wish-wash one could draft up, but for how extraordinarily pale his hair and skin were, how even the dimmest of lights could make his bare flesh a beacon. He was the chosen one, a godsend, they said. The high priests had his family relocated to the palace and placed his father on the throne, educating all of them in the duties of royalty. All because of an unfortunate child had been born with blood in his eyes and death in his skin, born with a body that matched the Suit’s defining colors. They awaited his coming-of-age ceremony, his coronation, hoping for his reign to be one of great glory. And it was, for a short while.

_“If I hear word that you have stepped foot on this soil, or in any of the Four Kingdoms, your Erzsébet will suffer a worse fate than you.”_

It was because of her that Gilbert resigned completely. Though he knew that she could care for herself, he did not want to put his brother’s strength and wit to the test now that he had been bested. After all, she had not been married to Gilbert yet and therefore was still up for the taking. He did not want to think of the unspeakable of things that could be done to her...he prayed that Ludwig would leave her be.

After what seemed like an eternity, Gilbert’s limbs began to sting. He looked down and sucked in a breath; he had clawed his flesh. Crimson rivulets flowed out of his trailing wounds. One spot in particular was a ravaged mess: his King’s Mark. It was a bold eagle soaring over a jeweled heart encircled by K’s. Where that shining heart had been was now scars struggling to cover torn meat and pooling blood.

It was over. A new life he never asked for, over. All he had was silence, his thoughts and the waves tossing him about.

Where could he go from here? There was no food and no fresh water in the ship with him. There was no blankets to shield him from the bitter winds. There was no navigation tools. There was not even a pocket knife to take his own life with. An empty ship with no set course.

He wondered if his brother ever intended him to survive this voyage.

And for the first time in ages, Gilbert cried himself to sleep.


	2. Prince of Honor

Bounding like a ball bouncing off a balcony and into the streets, Prince Alfred of Spades was suited up and ready for battle. He had recovered from the news of his father’s death in combat remarkably fast, much to the worry of his mother. Passion burned in his heart and vengeance in his eyes: a tell-tale sign of misguided grief condensed to fit behind a mask of calm. He promised the queen that he would bring back the king’s crown and the severed heads of the King and Queen of Clovers.

That was exactly what worried her.

Two years ago, Queen Aiyana sent her husband off to war with 257,000 men. Recently, during the Battle of Kholat Mountain, the king and his army were slaughtered. Only 81,009 men were reported to have survived and only a small fraction of them remained fit for battle against the unknown numbers of the Clovers Kingdom and the treacherous landscape they call home.

Though the Spades Kingdom was known for their military might and powerful magic, the queen was quite adamant about not underestimating the obstacles her family and her people faced. Her son, strong and stubborn as he is, she feared was not adequate to face off the King of Clovers. King Thomas did not make it to the capital before perishing in the avalanche-prone peaks. What more could Alfred do when he had never trained in any terrain outside of their borders?

The burning nighttime air did little to soothe the queen. The smell of the sea salt that clung to the humid breezes grazing her skin bit her lungs. Normally, she loved the combination of muggy air and hot atmosphere, but tonight was not a night of relaxation. Tonight, she has to send her son, her only child, to likely a brutal and vain death. The death of the king was surely a warning against this occasion, but shouldering the duties of both a queen and king had eaten away at her time to talk to Alfred. Even if she was not so laden with responsibilities, she doubted that he would give her a chance to sway him. He had shut himself away in his room the day the news came. He had his meals brought to him and he spent the days tinkering in his workspace. Now, he was ready to leave with whatever new inventions he decided to put to use, with the wavering confidence of reinforcement soldiers, with the hopes and lives of the Spades people in his hands.

Nearly dizzy from her wandering thoughts, the queen approached Alfred, who was triple-checking the satchel attached to the saddle of his mare while the soldiers fell in behind them.

She placed a hand on his arm. Cool, lightweight, yet tough armor echoed the clinking of her fingernails. Her touch did not seize his attention, so she broke the heavy silence.

“War is fueled by not just strength, but wisdom. Do not let your grief cloud your mind and decide your fate.”

“I have told you before, Mother, I am _fine_. I just need to do this. Think about what everyone will think if we let this go without harsher retaliation.” He spoke without looking at her and without revealing anything, save for fatigue. “The other monarchs are going to doubt our strength and the people will lose faith in their leaders. We will have protests in the streets and the other kingdoms will band together and wage war against us.”

“I do not think--”

“I refuse to let that happen. I refuse to show weakness.”

Queen Aiyana stood quietly for a few moments, then reached up to tuck one of her son’s flyaway hairs underneath his bangs. The attempt was in vain; the persistent curl sprang back up.

“It does not have to be now, Alfie. We have all the time in the world to act.”

Alfred gave a short, mirthless laugh. He turned to look at her, and she could not stop a small gasp from escaping her mouth; she swore she saw his eyes glowing a fiery blue, burning a sense of dread into her that made her heart drop into her stomach and rise up into her throat as a sea of bile. “Believe me, Mother, when I say this: I have had plenty of _time_ to work out a strategy in which there is no doubt I will win.”

Those eyes did not belong to the little boy she had nurtured with all the love she could give. Those eyes did not belong to the young heartthrob of a prince that frolicked in the streets to woo pretty ladies young and old. Those eyes belong to a man thirsting for blood.

The queen turned away and took a step back to compose herself. She clasped her hands together and brought them to her forehead in silent prayer. To her gods, to the gods of the Hearts Kingdom, to the Grand Council, any higher power.

Alfred softened. “I know you are worried. To lose a husband and possibly losing a child in the same season must be overwhelming. However, it wounds me to know you doubt me despite seeing what I am capable of.”

“You have never seen what the King of Clovers is capable of nor what he is willing to do to preserve his seat on the throne.”

“If I did, this final battle would be no fun.”

With that, he hopped onto his mare, signaled the guards at the gate, and spurred the horse into a gallop as the portcullis rose. Within minutes, Prince Alfred of Spades and 3,000 men left the castle grounds, heading towards the port where the navy was waiting to take them to the shores of the Clovers Kingdom.

Hands still clasped against her forehead, Queen Aiyana cried and prayed silently.

_Blessings be upon us and upon my son. Guide their steps and their thoughts, so that at dusk on the last day of bloodshed, if even only one is to survive, he will triumph as promised and find his way back home._


	3. Prince of Passion

  
_Katyusha wiped away the tears on her little brother’s plump cheeks. He clung to her torso, burying his face in her well-endowed chest. He begged her not to leave, as if she had any choice in the matter, and sobbed. Once again, she reminded him that it was the tsar’s wish and there was nothing anyone could do. However, she told him, if he truly wanted her to be with him, he need only ask when he became king one day._  


A dead woman’s name was on his lips when he woke. Dead to his father, at least. Prince Ivan clung to the sheets in the bed where the Crown Princess of Clovers used to lie every night when he was little, singing him to sleep. He clung to her fading scent, her sweet voice, and the memories that broke and slipped away each day that passed without her presence. He clung to happiness and to youthful innocence until the minute he had to remake the bed and leave to be a man he never wanted to become.

Ivan never understood his father’s ways. He grew up with the knowledge of his mother was somewhere in the castle or somewhere in the kingdom, but he never saw her or her room. He knew she existed as the townspeople would often gossip about her in hushed whispers, but she was never at the dinner table with the rest of the family. He never knew the Queen of Clovers, and his father made sure he never would. Ivan asked his older sister what their mother was like; either she had no knowledge of the matter as well or was not permitted to speak about it. Likewise the younger sister. He decided to ask his father about her and why his children were never allowed to be near her. He gave Ivan twenty lashings for his cheek.

Ivan never understood why his father hated Katyusha so passionately. The Crown Princess was by nature harmless and could not bear to cause unjust damage to any living creature. She never disobeyed a command. She followed court etiquette as best she could, and the people thought she was perfect. She was at instinct a mother figure and would have been easy to marry off. Ivan felt that her “punishment” was unjustified and took it up with his father. He received fifty lashings and was beat repeatedly with a white-hot branding iron for questioning the tsar’s decisions.

Katyusha’s absence left Ivan with the task of protecting their younger sister, a forbidden child, from their father’s wrath. The Grand Council, an assembly of deities that had forced themselves upon the Four Kingdoms a century ago, had decreed that the monarchies of the Four Suits were not allowed to have their own children. The law was intended to prevent one kingdom from conquering another by marrying several children into that royal family; instead, the new rulers of a kingdom were either the children the previous monarchs had before their coronation or random persons the brands indicating royal status would appear on. Natalya was born a year after the decree was established and was disguised as a close cousin. For good measure, however, Czar Alexei had her locked in her chamber unless her presence was absolutely necessary. Meals were brought to her room via dumbwaiter. The windows in her chamber were nailed and bolted shut. If the castle had special visitors, Natalya’s old nursemaid would sit with her and make sure she did not alert the guests to her existence. The princess grew bitter and angry at her father and the life she was shackled to, which scared her brother immensely. He was scared for her, scared of how reaching out for help outside the confines of the castle walls would mean the death of what family he had left and their people at the hands of other kingdoms.

But all these fears were stowed away behind a mask of courage that had been left behind in one abandoned room. Hiding behind a fragile idea of strength of heart, Ivan prayed to the god of winter that his little sister would not snap and risk standing up to their father as he had done before. He hated the idea of the tsar marring her skin the way he had done to Ivan or banishing her the same way he had done to Katyusha. He wanted his remaining sister to lay low until the day the czar died, for once he ascended to the throne as promised, he planned to free them from their turmoil and rebuild the kingdom their father beat and let wither away.

Waking with a dead woman’s name on his lips was a small reminder of what he had lost. Waking in a room that used to be home to the greatest woman in his life became a memorial of his failures. And when he remade the bed slowly with trembling hands and a sinking heart, the memories that surrounded the room became a force that drove him. He refused to remain the young weakling who could not fight to protect what was important to him. The day he will make things right will come, and when it does, he will fight for things to remain that way.

He owed Katyusha that.


	4. The Gilded Cage

_The King of Diamonds never felt more powerless. As the court magician approached with the slip of paper, he clutched his newborn son tighter against his chest._

_The babe, swaddled snugly in lilac silk, gurgled in wonder at the shimmering sparkles of light emitting from the king’s jewelry. He reached up to tug gently on one of his father’s golden curls while the other hand was deeply invested in pulling at the skin of his own dainty lips._

_King Francis smiled weakly at his son’s joy. How oblivious the child was to his fate. So young, so sweet._

_“Your Majesty,” the court magician said, shaking the king back to reality. They held out a quill and tapped the lower section of the document. “Please sign here.”_

_The monarch obliged with a shaky hand. His intricate signature scratched light burns into the parchment. The paper snapped back into a roll, and with a touch from the court magician, the contract bound and burst into a column of flames. Within seconds, it condensed into a seal, ready for branding._

_The young prince, frightened by the sudden show of light, buried his face into the king’s coat and began to whimper._

_“No, no, shhh, Matthieu,” Francis cooed. He tried rocking him back and forth to soothe him. “Everything will be all right. Trust me.”_

_“Your Majesty,” the court magician prompted again, a little irritably. “It is time.”_

_The king stopped abruptly. Miffed at their tone, he deliberated whether or not to stall just to have the tension eat at them a bit more. He took a moment to think it over and, deciding against such a petty act, unwrapped the blankets to expose the child’s unblemished flesh._

_The court magician stepped closer and examined the spot. The pre-existing mark decorating the right side of the prince’s chest detailed him as the next King of Diamonds. They gently flattened out the skin with their forefinger and thumb, much to little Matthieu’s discomfort, and firmly pressed the seal on top of the old mark._

_The seal sizzled as it melted. Matthieu gasped, tensing up, and for a moment, he made no sound. His face scrunched up and his eyes welled with tears._

_“Je suis désolé, mon chouchou,” the king whispered as he, too, began to cry. “Veuillez me pardonner.”_

_Matthieu wailed, flailing his little fists and kicking frantically._

_“Je suis désolé de tout mon coeur. Je suis—”_

King Francis awoke cold and wet. He reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes and tuck his now sopping wet hair behind his ears. A visibly distressed chambermaid stood over him with an empty washtub in her hands.

“Thank you, mon chérie.”

The maid curtsied and scrambled off to fetch a towel and a change of clothes.

The king sat up and stared at his hands. If it was not that day, it was the day she died. He could never escape those realities, even in his dreams. He had consulted all of his advisers and used every method each had suggested, but no fruitful results.

For a man with all the riches in the world, with all the luxuries and the fame money could attract, he was not happy. He was alone, and ever so lonely, again.

The maid returned and began to dry him off. Her touch was feather-light, though not in a disparaging manner. She passed the cloth over the king’s skin reverently, a little too focused on her task. The warm breezes flowing into the room had done most of the work for her, yet, meticulous as she was, in everything she did, she made sure the monarch was comfortable.

“You are Bianca, oui?” Francis asked without looking up.

“Oui, Your Majesty.”

“Good, good,” he murmured to himself. He supposed he should have known, but nothing can ever be too safe. This particular young lady served not only as a maid, but as a listening ear and an extra caution in protecting the Crown. She was the only servant to work the evening and night shift, per his request. Wizened at heart, she seemed to know exactly what to say and what to do to comfort the king when his own grievings threatened to swallow him whole. Her closeness to King Francis often led to rumors of an affair between the two of them.

“Tell me, Bianca, what makes you happy?”

“Pérdon?” She elevated his calf slightly by the ankle.

“What sort of things or activities make you happy?” Francis clarified. “Surely a rather demanding job as yours makes it hard to stay positive. How do you carry on?”

“Well, you see, Your Majesty, the work keeps me busy, and keeping busy keeps the bad thoughts and the bad memories away. Focusing on other things, other people and what they have to say...there’s just no room in my head to worry.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t very helpful, was it?”

Francis looked up and regarded her carefully. Her cheeks were tinged pink, whether out of embarrassment or the fact that her hands were getting a little too high on his thigh. He spared her the latter and took the cloth out of her hand.

“Do not worry,” he said with a smile, “After all, there is no room in your pretty little head for it.”

Bianca smiled back, and she turned around to give both of them a moment of privacy. She rubbed the inside of her wrist with her thumb, bent her head, and exhaled softly through her nose. She should be used to seeing the king naked. It was her job to dress him after his afternoon nap, and he always slept in the nude. Day after day, week after week, it was part of her daily routine. Yet, every time, she could not handle the intimacy of it.

A gentle tug on her shirt told her she could face the king again. Keeping her eyes averted, she held her hands out to allow him to pull himself up to a standing position.

The evening outfits were quite simple in comparison to the ones King Francis would wear during the day and for special events. The cloths were lighter; they had no extravagant patterns and detailed embroidery. Jewelry was minimal. Combined with walking boots and a riding coat, it was a comfortable break from the burdens of the earlier hours.

Bianca led the king to a chair beside the bed. She combed her fingers through his long, golden curls, gently untangling the ends. Separating the two prominent curls from the rest, she pinned his hair up with careful hands. When she was done, she looked over her work, retracing her steps in her head, to assure herself she did it right.

The sun began to set in the sky, and the preparations were finished. The king rose from the chair, thanked Bianca for her service, and made his way out of the room.

“‘Keeping busy’, eh?” he murmured to himself as the doors shut behind him. “We will see how that goes.”

—

Louis Jansen had finished delivering lunch platters to the nobles when he spotted the King of Diamonds standing before the portrait of the late queen, appearing oddly forlorn. No one else was with him, or in the vicinity, for that matter. Louis crept along the wall, the heels of his shoes sinking into the soft fibers of the carpet, to get a closer look.

Hand over his heart, the monarch gazed wistfully at the queen’s warm, smiling face.  
Jeanne, his light in darkness.  
Jeanne, the greatest and brightest star in all of Diamonds.  
Jeanne, his true and utmost wealth.

And she was gone forever. Yet, at the same time, standing before this painting, it felt as if she had not left at all.

King Francis reached out with his left hand, as if to hold hers, but the protective casing halted his fingers an inch from the paint. His nails clinked against the glass, and as if shaken from a stupor, he pulled away and retreated down the hall.

Louis waited for a few moments, then trailed him at a respectful distance. It was odd to see the King of Diamonds without a smile. Even on the day the queen died, he smiled, smiled through the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. No matter the circumstance, the Sun King always shined brightly for all to see, admire, and look up to. Vulnerability was not an option.

The target led Louis to the palace kitchens. He hovered behind the doors, peering through the crack between them.

The head cook, Louis’ mother, bustled about inside. She paid the king no heed when he approached her. Instead, she focused on tending to the pots cooking on the stoves.

King Francis looked around the area. Seeing no nearby staff, he tapped her on the shoulder.

“How is he doing?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s out in the stables and has nothing important scheduled for this evening.”

“You know why I cannot do that.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Cannot or will not?”

Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed a pepper grinder from a nearby spice rack and tried to turn it over one of the pots, but the wheel did not move. She began to bang the end of it against the granite countertop.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, you ought to spend more time with him. He is your son,” she continued.

“I need more time,” he pleaded. “I have not found my replacement yet; it would be unfair to him—”

“And keeping such a thing from him is what you consider fair?” she snapped. “You have had time, nineteen years of it, and it’s about time you told him!”

The king averted his gaze, not pleased at how the conversation was turning out. He fiddled with the cuff his coat and sighed.

“When I allowed you to care for him, Ella, you agreed—no, you promised me—that you would keep quiet, lest you lose your head,” he whispered.

Ella pursed her lips, then resumed banging the pepper grinder, though more aggressively this time.

“If you are too scared to open up to your own son, that is your problem, not mine.”

“I do not know how he thinks!” he protested, “I cannot be sure of how he will handle this revelation!”

The pepper grinder split at the bottom. Some of the contents spilled out on the countertop. Ella looked up at the king irritably, as if it were somehow his fault that there was an extra mess for her to clean up.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Please, Ella,” the king said. He took her hand in his. “He is still young, and I am sure, under your guidance, he has not been tainted by arrogance and ambition like other boys his age have been. I can afford to delay a little longer.”

She rolled her eyes. She pushed the top of the pepper grinder into his chest.

“You’ve combed this kingdom countless times. I doubt you’ll find the next king before it’s too late for either of you. Before you know it, Matthieu will reach my age and have kids of his own if war doesn’t take him first.”

Louis, eyes wide, exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. The king turned immediately as he backed away.

The last thing Louis saw before he started running was his mother’s face paling.

—

The door of the stables flew open, startling the horses and its occupant, who had been packing tools into a satchel.

Red-faced, out of breath, and nearly in tears, Louis wrung his hands as he paced up and down. Matthieu put down the bag and followed him.

“I think I’m gonna die,” Louis whispered. “I’m done for. I’ll lose my head tonight for sure.”

Matthieu shook his head. “Please, calm down. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

“No, you don’t understand—”

Matthieu grasped his wrists. Louis squirmed a bit, then stood still. Neither of them spoke until Louis’ breathing had stabilized.

“Now tell me what happened. Take your time and relax.”

“I was delivering lunch to the nobles while Mum was cleaning up and preparing ours. As I was going back, I saw the king in the hallway. The west wing, in front of the covered painting. He looked sad, which I thought was weird since he always smiles, and I stopped to watch him.”

“Go on,” Matthieu prompted. “I’m listening. Did he see you?”

“No, not then. I followed him back to the kitchens, and he started talking to Mum. They were talking about him having a son and it ended up being you and I…” he gulped. “And he caught me spying on them. I’ve never seen Mum so scared. I ran for all that was in me, Mattie.”

Matthieu took a step back.

“Let me get this straight,” he began slowly. “They were talking about me and the king’s son.”

Louis bristled. “No, just you. You are the king’s son. Mum was fussing about him talking to you about it, but he went on and on about how he needed more time.”

Matthieu shook his head again. “I’m sorry, Louis, that’s a lot to take in. I don’t...I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“No! No, no, I do. I just…” He sucked in a breath and tried again. “Knowing that’s true, what can we do? What can I do? We all know the law.”

Louis stared at the ground. He scuffed the side of his shoe against the stable floor.

“I would ask Mum, but she’s in the castle.”

“I’ll walk with you. If the king isn’t too keen on talking to me, we shouldn’t have any problems.”

Louis lunged forward to embrace Matthieu. “Please don’t let me die.”

—

Matthieu and Louis burst into the kitchens. Their way had been clear, strangely enough, as if everyone had left the castle for the evening, which unsettled the both of them. Yet, neither of their discomforts came close to the head cook’s who jumped at the sudden sounds.

Ella stood in front of the sink, her elbows on the edge and her head in her hands.

“Bon aprés-midi,” she said quietly, coughing as she did to unsuccessfully cover the cracks in her voice.

Matthieu went to hug her from behind. She looked up at him; her eyes were red with tears and her lips were chapped from being bit fretfully.

“Louis told you, didn’t he?”

“Is he in any danger if he did?”

She seemed to think it over for a moment before replying with a decisive “No.”

“Then yes, he did.”

Ella turned to look at her son. She held out her arms and Louis rushed to hug her. He sobbed into her embrace, apologizing over and over for what he had done, and she rubbed his back and let him cry. Matthieu withdrew and stood quietly to the side, suddenly interested in watching the sun lower itself in the sky.

It was twilight when Louis had cried to his limit. Ella sent him off for a nap with a bowl of soup. Once the door to the servant quarters had firmly closed behind him, Matthieu approached her again.

“What do I need to know?”

Ella sniffled. “I did what I thought would save you. I couldn’t stand there and watch your father discuss options like you were just some inconvenience. While I’m still here, no man is going to act like the lives of their inferiors can just be thrown away at their will. Not again, and certainly not to an infant.”

“I’m nineteen now. I understand the importance of keeping quiet when I was little, but I am old enough to be trusted. I’m old enough to understand the dangers.”

“It’s not my place to make those decisions.”

“Then why not ask someone who does?”

Ella slapped her hand on the countertop. Matthieu jumped.

"Take it up with him, then!” she snapped. “You’re an _adult_ now, do as you please.”

He stared at her for a few moments. She had never raised her voice at him before.

“I will.”

—

Matthieu pushed past the guards and into the king’s chamber. One of the chambermaids—Biola, he believed was her name—led him to a chair conveniently placed near the bed.

“Your Majesty, the Ace of Diamonds wishes to have an audience with you.”

“I accept,” the king said. “You are dismissed.”

The maid curtsied and darted away.

“Your Majesty,” Matthieu began.

“Papa,” King Francis corrected, “You know now. There is no point in hiding it anymore.”

Matthieu blanked. “Yes...Papa.”

The word felt odd on his tongue. He never had the chance to say the word in his life before now. It was even more odd to speak to the King of Diamonds in such a familiar and casual manner. Matthieu had always observed the monarch from a distance; he always communicated with him through letters only, instead of face-to-face conversations. Though, now that he was sitting within a few feet of the man himself, he could see why they were kept separate.

King Francis had lustrous waves of hair that, up close, gave off the appearance of spun gold. It was tied up in a style that let it cascade over his shoulder blades. Two smaller curls framed his deceptively youthful face, tracing a line from the top of his head to his jawline. If his hair was styled down, it would, most likely, mirror Matthieu’s.

“You must be beyond upset and angry with me,” Francis said, breaking Matthieu out of his reverie.

“I’m more interested in understanding than being angry. I don’t get anything out of holding grudges, so why bother?”

“I see.” Francis paused, then fiddled with the many rings adorning his fingers. “It all happened so fast. I did not have time to grieve. I never wanted to hand you over for someone else to raise, but the Decrees and the...misfortune...of the Star Kingdom were too daunting to ignore.”

In a quieter tone, seemingly to himself, he muttered, “She would never let me even think of doing it.”

He glanced at Matthieu, then continued. “Miss van Moorlehem offered to raise you for me, so that you would be close to home. I realize now that that choice was a grave mistake.”

“What will you do now?” Matthieu asked.

“The Decree in question says I must surrender you to them. However, as I did nineteen years ago, I refuse to do it. Instead, you must leave.”

“What?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said,” Matthieu said. He rose to his feet. “I don’t see why I have to leave. As far as the public is concerned, I’m still a peasant’s son.

Francis did not reply.

“It’s because of my mother, isn’t it?” he accused. “You’ve never stopped mourning her. The Advisory Council has been urging you to cover up her painting with the customary veil, since you constantly abandon your duties to go stare at it for hours. I remind you of her, and I’m willing to make a bet that you avoiding me all these years was because you can’t look at my face without seeing hers.”

The king’s head snapped up. “It has nothing to do with her, it was for your own good!”

“That is a lie and you know it!”

Francis flinched. He bowed his head and shifted a bit, crossing and uncrossing his ankles. “Once again, you’ve put me in a delicate position.”

Matthieu rolled his eyes. “What are you so afraid of? You had the courage to defy the Decree nineteen years ago? Where is that courage now?”

Francis placed a hand over his heart.

“Loss. That is what I am afraid of.”

“Pardon?”

“The more people who know about your true lineage, the more people who will talk. The more people who talk, the more people who will know, and soon the entire kingdom will be knowledgeable and then our little secret will fly beyond our borders. By then, it will be too late for all of us.” he sighed. “If I have to watch our homeland, our culture, and our people be destroyed because of something I had done, I would not be able to handle it. Loss is a difficult thing to endure, especially for those who have so much. It is a foreign feeling that is wholly terrifying, for none of us feel it often enough.”

“But losing me is not hard for you,” Matthieu remarked bitterly.

Francis stood and put his hands on Matthieu’s shoulders.

“If the circumstances were different, I would not let anything separate us. You are my son, my flesh and blood. Thus, I love you with all of my heart. Nothing any one person, or any so-called god, can do or say to change that.”

Matthieu pushed his hands away. “Then let me stay. It was only Louis, and the only person he told was me. He’d never betray me like that. Besides, people will ask questions—”

“And I can give them acceptable answers.”

“Ella wouldn’t stand for it.”

“She will not stand at all.”

Matthieu paled. “You can’t. She’s like a mother to me—you can’t do that!”

Francis shook his head. “She knew what she was doing when she asked for my permission to raise you. She knew what would happen if word got out.”

“Papa, please.”

“Mon Dieu, boy, she is not your real mother!” Francis snapped. “As well and as much as she can pretend, she could never fill Jeanne’s shoes.”

“I can’t lose her.”

Francis put his hands up. “I understand. You’re hurting. However, you are asking me for something I cannot give. This vow was made long ago, and I am not a man that reneges his contracts!”

Matthieu could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He wiped away the tears pricking at his eyes.

“Kill me instead.”

Francis blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I am good as dead out there, and while I’m gone, you’ll destroy the people I’ve known my whole life? What do I have left?” he shook his head. “I might as well be dead.”

“I could never do such a thing.”

“Then don’t. You’re not the one manning the guillotine anyway.”

“Do not speak so coarsely to me, Matthieu. You are only making this ordeal worse for all of us.”

“That’s all you have to say to me?” Matthieu said, bewildered. “I leave, they die, and I just have to deal with that as I wander aimlessly in the Wasteland until I die?”

“Banishment is not stated to be forever,” Francis muttered.

“What?”

“I planned to make you an offer, but I see now that you would be unwilling to accept it. You have my sincere apologies, Matthieu. You may leave.”

The king turned around and sat down on the bed, visibly weary from the conversation. The chambermaid reappeared soon after, solemn and silent, as if she had heard everything. She beckoned Matthieu with a nod, but he paid her no heed.

“What were you going to offer me?” he said, suddenly curious.

“A second chance. Soon, my time as king will come to an end, and another bearing the King’s Mark will replace me. I have been making arrangements for this since I handed you over to Ella, but thus far, the search remains fruitless. Now that our situation is compromised, the pressure to find the new heir is more apparent than ever. When the time does come for the new heir to take the throne, I hoped to look for you, so that we could be the family we were meant to be.”

“Oh…”

“I knew it would not make up for what you will lose, but is the best I can do, given the circumstances.”

“Do you swear it?”

Francis looked up at him, taken aback by his response. “Oui, on my heart and soul.”

Matthieu stretched out his right arm. Tears welled in Francis’ eyes as he stood and mirrored the motion. As they gripped the other’s arm tightly, an ethereal glow surrounded their clasped arms, signifying the binding of the vow.

“You have a deal.”

—

Night had fallen. The air was crisp and the wind restless. The moon, full and almost ridiculously bright, hung high in the sky. The streets were quiet, as the capitol had more or less shut down to end the day.

Escorted by private guards, King Francis and the Ace of Diamonds arrived at the entrance to the castle grounds. The gates opened slowly to reveal the sendoff group, consisting of Miss van Moorlehem and her son, Bianca the chambermaid, and their precautionary guards. A large white bear was leashed to a nearby flagpole.

Bianca curtsied to the king. The other two did not follow suit.

“Is that a bear?” Matthieu asked, puzzled by the presence of the creature. “Why is it here?”

“You will be leaving on it,” Francis said. “You cannot take the palace horses, so this will have to do.”

“Won’t it hurt me?

“No, it is domesticated, to an extent. Villagers were found to have been treating the bear as a pet, but out of public safety concerns, it was quietly taken into custody until we could find a better use for it. It cannot be released into the wild after a long period of pacification.”

When Matthieu gave no further protest, the king nodded to Bianca, and she and Matthieu traded positions so that she was standing at the king’s side and Matthieu by his adopted family.

Ella pulled him by the forearm into a tight hug.

“I don’t regret my choices, Mattie, remember that,” she whispered in his ear. “This wasn’t an outcome I had hoped for you, but I know you’ll survive and make it through. You’re a strong young man.”

“I’ll miss you,” he replied, burrowing his face into the crook of her neck. She smelled vaguely of cinnamon and ground cocoa beans.

“I know, sweetheart.” She released him then, tears shining in her eyes once more. “It’ll be okay. You’ll be alright.”

Matthieu tried to catch Louis’ eye, but his gaze was deliberately avoided. He glanced at Ella for a glean of reassurance. She shook her head and tucked her son under her arm.

That was it, he supposed. Though he would like to have one last happy moment as a family unit, he could not ask of them what they can not give. They needed to reserve that moment for their last time together, as a real family.

A real family...one where emotions and memories are passed through flesh and blood. The ability to understand, care, and nurture within one’s own kin. A bond that cannot be fabricated.

Matthieu smiled the best he could. He inclined his head to one of the guards.

“I’m ready to go now.”

The guard untied the white bear and ushered it in front of Matthieu. It sniffed expectantly at his hands. Matthieu gently stroked its nose, letting the hair follicles tickle his hands. It seemed tame.

He clambered onto the bear’s back. A makeshift saddle of old, worn out cloths was held in place by a satchel. He assumed it was full of food and water.  
Holding the reins in his hands, Matthieu looked at the group before him.

“Thank you. Thank you all for everything. For all the sacrifices made for me to live a decent life, to live at all, even. Despite of what it is all coming down to, I am grateful.”

Several heads nodded in acknowledgement, and with that, Matthieu nudged the bear into action, flanked by two pairs of guards. He looked over his shoulder and waved; his father, Ella, and Bianca returned the gesture until they could no longer see each other over the horizon.

Matthieu crossed the border into the Wasteland at daybreak. The guards had left him a while back, with their condolences. Alone, he again turned his head, this time to see his homeland shrink in the distance, to see the land shimmer like diamonds in the light of the golden sun.


End file.
